The world around Emily seemed to warp as her dream continued. The dusty cabin faded, and the oppressive weight of another time and place settled over her senses. She was now watching the man again, his face haggard and sunken, his hair streaked with white though he couldn't have been more than forty. The rapid ageing was grotesque, his skin a roadmap of veins and despair.
He stumbled into the town square, clutching the diary to his chest like a lifeline, or perhaps a noose. His movements were erratic as if he were a puppet barely in control of his own strings.
Emily followed silently, unseen yet deeply unsettled by the energy that pulsed through the square. The villagers, men and women she had seen in fragments earlier, stood perfectly still in a semi-circle. Their eyes, once alive with confusion or curiosity, were now glazed over, empty.
The man raised the diary above his head, his voice trembling. "I've seen them... beyond the veil! They whispered to me, and I wrote it all down. I gave you the truth!"
But there was no response. The townspeople didn't flinch, didn't blink. And then, as if choreographed by something beyond them, they began to move.
At first, Emily thought they were bowing to the man. Then she realized they were gathering stones, branches, anything solid and sturdy. The movements were jerky but purposeful, like marionettes manipulated by unseen strings. Slowly, they assembled the pieces into a grotesque structure.
A statue.
But it was no ordinary statue.
The materials fused unnaturally, glowing faintly with an unholy light. The figure took shape: hunched, skeletal, a mockery of the man who now stood paralyzed in horror. His own likeness.
Emily's stomach churned as the townspeople turned toward the man. Their empty eyes locked onto him, and for a brief moment, clarity flickered across their faces. A mix of pity and rage. Then they began to chant, low and guttural, words that Emily couldn't decipher.
Before the man could run, they surrounded him, dragging him toward the unfinished effigy. He screamed, thrashing, but his strength was no match for their numbers.
They placed him inside the statue.
The branches twisted unnaturally, tightening around his limbs, locking him into a contorted pose. The stones fused with his skin, merging flesh and rock until they were indistinguishable. His screams became muffled as the transformation consumed him entirely, leaving only a gaping, silent mouth.
The moment the statue was complete, the villagers fell silent. Then, one by one, they began to move in a circle around it, their bodies bending and twisting in unnatural ways. It wasn't a dance of celebration or mourning; it was a ritual, eerie and unsettling.
Emily felt bile rise in her throat as she realized their movements were synchronized with something she couldn't see, couldn't hear. It was as if they were responding to a frequency too high or too low for her to perceive.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything started to fade. The air shimmered, the square dimmed, and the edges of the town dissolved into an endless void.
The statue, the dancers, the man's silent scream—they all vanished.
Not even a trace of dust remained.
Emily found herself alone in the void, her breathing ragged. She looked down at her hands, half-expecting to see them turning to stone, but they were as they'd always been. The diary, however, lay open on the ground in front of her.
It wasn't the man's diary anymore, though. It was hers.
She reached for it, hesitated, and then opened it to the first page. Words began to scrawl across the blank surface in ink that looked disturbingly like blood:
"The truth is not yours to hold. Pass it on, or it will consume you."
The air shifted again, and Emily jolted awake, gasping for breath.